


Darling, So It Goes

by fmo



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, T just for language and drugs/alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fmo/pseuds/fmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody knows that Jim's soulmate is Tony Stark. They're platonic, probably. Maybe. Maybe it doesn't even matter.</p><p>-</p><p>'Her words were written down her spine; when she noticed Jim looking at them, she said, “I’ve met him. He’s an asshole.”</p><p>She hadn’t asked about Jim’s own words over his heart, but he said, “And even when they’re the worst asshole in the world, you still love them, don’t you?”</p><p>The fireworks turned the glass of the window pink and neon red and orange and gold. “Can’t help it,” she said. “Sometimes you even like them.”'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, So It Goes

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: only Tony's alcoholism and drug use, I think. Nothing sexual or romantic whatsoever happens until Tony is over 20. The events of Iron Man are referenced but there's really nothing about what happens to Tony in the cave.

Back in the day, all soulmarks shared between men were supposed to be platonic. Then, around the seventies and eighties, an idea that had been so little, just a leaf in a crack in the sidewalk, started to grow larger; and the idea was that platonic soulmarks and same-gender soulmarks weren’t the same thing. Maybe there were men soulmarked with men who were lovers. Maybe there were women soulmarked with men who were meant to be best friends.

Jim met Tony Stark in 1986. It actually wasn’t literally at MIT, although they were both going to school there at the time. It was on the Mass Ave bridge, on a Friday night so late it was Saturday morning. Walking back to Cambridge after a—he was young, okay—a late-running D&D game at a friend’s apartment across the river, Jim came across this young guy looking over the railing of the bridge, leaning over so far that Jim wasn’t sure if he should be worried.

He thought about not stopping; the guy was only looking over the side of the bridge. But at a second glance, this guy was young, maybe more of a kid than a man, with dark fluffy hair blowing all over and a big sweatshirt, and he was leaning over kind of far.

So Jim stopped, far away enough that nobody would make any assumptions, because he had to be careful in a world that wasn’t. Loud enough to carry, he said, “Hey, don’t fall over.”

The kid—guy—jerked back suddenly, pulled back from the railing and stared at Jim. As cars raced over the bridge, loaning their yellow lights to the sidewalk for moments before vanishing again, Jim could see that the guy was holding something in his hands. He was short, and definitely not old enough to be in college, and strangely vulnerable with his big eyes and big shoes and big sweatshirt in the chilly fall air.

Then the kid glanced back over to the river, did something to the object in his hands, and leaned back in pride as some kind of buzzing— _flying_ —thing swooped up over the edge of the bridge and landed, somewhat heavily, on the sidewalk between Jim and its pilot.

It was some kind of RC floatplane hybrid; it stood delicate, like an oversized grasshopper or cricket, on long ski-like floats underneath that presumably let it float on water. But the top of it bristled with both wings and propellers, in a configuration Jim couldn’t discern at all in the dark. Jim had never seen anything like it.

Grinning in the wind, the kid clutched the radio controller in his hands and said, “Do you want one? I’ll make one for you. You’re my soulmate. You’ve got to be because I’m yours, even though people say that to me a lot, but I know it’s you.”

Jim’s first thought was: _Wait, do I know this kid?_

His second thought was: _Oh, my god. Soulmate. Soulmate._

His third thought was: _Oh my god, a teenager alone with tech like that, this is Tony Stark. It’s Tony Stark, isn’t it?_

His fourth thought was: _So that’s what they’ll make me one of_.

Because right over his heart, in scribbly, hasty writing, it said _, Do you want one? I’ll make one for you._ He’d thought ‘it’ might be maybe some kind of food, like a cup of coffee. He hadn’t ever thought it would be a Frankensteined-hybrid remote-controlled floatplane-copter. It probably would have been hard to guess that.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jim said. “Yeah, I am.”

Back then, Tony had been sixteen, so Jim had automatically assumed they were platonic. He’d seen Tony around campus when people pointed to him, and Tony had always stood out as the teenager in a crowd of adults. In that moment on the bridge, all that Jim thought, looking at Tony, was: who the hell thought this kid should be wandering Boston or Cambridge in the early hours of the weekend, by himself, playing with experimental technology and not wearing a coat? 

Jim had made it pretty clear at the time. He’d said something like, “So, platonic, huh,” and then Tony had smiled and said, “Right!”

He hadn’t really known what to do, so he ended up feeling like a big brother more than anything. After their graduation that spring, for a while he and Tony had mostly communicated through phone calls and then, at Tony’s forceful insistence, through something Jim learned was called IRC. They both had lives to lead, but Tony, for all the things he seemed to be busy doing all the time, was never too busy to pepper Jim with statements and questions and complaints at any moment throughout the day.

It was nice, getting that steady tap-tap-tap of messages, like someone always tapping on his window for attention and then lighting up with excitement when he gave it to them. Tony was surprisingly funny (somehow Jim hadn’t expected that of a rich child genius) and had interesting things to say and was never shy to express what he was feeling. Jim got used to getting surprise boxes in the mail containing prototypes of weird stuff Tony made as a hobby, like the RC floatplane he’d promised (not that Jim ever needed a radio-controlled model plane that could land on water) and fancy, pointless gifts (pasta pots that somehow were worth $500, power drills with 60 different attachments, cashmere sweaters from Barneys in the wrong size). Jim had never been called so many pet names in his life—had never been a Jimmy or a “darling”—but now he was _Jim dear_ and _Friend Bear_ and _platypus_ (for no reason Jim could ever discern) and then especially Tony started calling him _Rhodey_ one day and never stopped.

*

When Jim was on leave in 1992, he went to visit Tony in Tony’s new house (“Not a mansion, it only has like two floors and the lab”) in Malibu that overlooked the ocean. Apparently, Tony had actually demolished his family’s old mansion a couple hundred feet over in order to turn the plot into a scrubby, wild area in which he drove four-wheelers irresponsibly. Next, Tony had naturally hired an incredibly expensive and avant-garde architect to build an entirely new house on top of the nearby cliff. He then sent many pictures of this house to Jim. At this time, Tony was twenty-two; Jim was twenty-six, and had just seen a relationship with a long-term girlfriend fall apart due to distance and lack of attention.

Tony, of course, sent a put-upon driver he referred to as “Happy” to the airport to pick Jim up. Upon finally arriving at the house after a long nap in the car, Jim discovered that Tony had the place filled with nubile young people of no particular occupation. Jim wasn’t even sure if a party was really going on or if this was how Tony’s house usually was. 

He found Tony in the garage-slash-lab Happy directed him to, below the ordinary house. Going down the stairs, he’d mentally perhaps still pictured the Tony he remembered, with too-big feet and too-floppy hair. Instead, he got twenty-two-year old Tony Stark with tight jeans and no shirt and a boxer’s torso and arms, turning from the huge jet engine he was tinkering with and then rising to throw himself bodily at Jim, muttering nonsense into Jim’s ear and sweating on Jim’s shirt.

“Looks like a fun party down here,” Jim teased him. Tony pulled back from the embrace and laughed: a charming, genuine laugh. A boombox in the corner, drowning out the hubbub upstairs, kept insisting that life was a highway that the singer planned to ride all night long. 

This older Tony looked so different, even more than photos had shown; but then they were both in their twenties now, weren’t they? And everything was different. It was funny, but Tony's eyelashes looked even darker than they had before. They were the _starkest_ eyelashes Jim had ever seen on anyone. They made Tony look like the star of a silent movie, like Valentino or Buster Keaton. 

Then Tony pinched Jim’s cheek, or tried to before Jim indulgently batted his hand away, and said, “Party’s here now my Twizzler’s landed. I gotta show you what I got DUM-E to do. Obie says it’s the most misguided part of my youth, which means I’m doing something totally right or wrong, not sure which yet. Did you find my girlfriend Bethany upstairs?” It was always _my girlfriend Bethany_ or _my girlfriend Bonnie_ or whatever the girlfriend’s name was at the time.

“I thought you were dating—wait, never mind,” Jim said. He’d left his suitcase with Happy, who he hoped would put it in a room that was not being used upstairs. “Before you show me this thing with your weird robot or your orgy, you’re gonna ask me how my flight was and how things are with Laura and you’re gonna get me some of that good coffee.”

“Aww, missed you too, buttercup,” Tony said, sitting back on his stool and then spinning around to zoom backwards across the room to the coffee maker, lifting his feet high so the inertia took him right across the smooth concrete. He was so in his element here, surrounded by his machines.

And Jim thought, _I might be falling in love_.

After the coffee, which was pretty great compared to the fare on the base, and the demonstration of the robot’s cooking skills, which were not great, Tony took Jim upstairs into the vortex of sound and movement that was Tony's party. "You having fun?" Tony kept asking him. Tony kept getting him another drink. Tony disappeared in a haze of laughter. Blurred into fragments of memory and sensation, the night left no time for Jim to examine the idea of this new Tony any closer.

The next day, Jim woke up in the guest room with a mild hangover. Tony apparently slept through most of the day, according to his new PA, Heather, who already looked frustrated as hell.

So Jim got up, showered, packed his things again and went to visit his family in Philadelphia. Then he went back to work, because this wasn’t his life. His calling was the Air Force; having never been in the Army, he couldn’t say what it was like, but being a pilot was about skill. It was about having the discernment and the experience to make exactly the right choice at the right time to keep up that impossibility of being a man surrounded by tons of metal who was, just for a little while, weightless. That was what pride meant—the good kind of pride that was only for you. Parties on a cliff in Malibu couldn't compare to that.

*

In 1996, Jim learned that he could lose respect for someone and still love them.

He’d always loved and respected his mother, his father, his sister, his girlfriends. He’d always thought they were the same thing.

In 1996, Tony and Jim were in Nevada for a demonstration of Stark surveillance satellite technology. “Surveillance?” Jim had said, when he first heard word of it.

Tony had said, over the phone, “Worked on it for six months, it’s like five hundred times better than that shit Hammer’s peddling. Leave ‘im in the dust.” Sometimes it felt like Stark Industries was just reaching out into any area it could, like Tony got interests and then lost them again like a child whose favorite toy was always the newest. Sometimes it seemed like the older Tony got, the more Jim ended up telling him he was being a child.

Of course, Tony had stopped in Vegas beforehand, because that was just how Tony was. At least his PA, Virginia (who had really confused Jim until he realized that she was the “Pepper” that Tony kept talking about) had called Jim in advance and explained the situation.

Part of the situation was that Tony attempted to arrive at the base with three Vegas showgirls in sequins crammed in the back seat of his car.

But the worst part, the worst moment, came five minutes after the demonstration was supposed to start, when all the brass were waiting. Of course Jim was the one who went to the men’s room to find Tony. That was like a bad habit Jim couldn't break.

Tony was there. Tony was sprawled on the linoleum floor, blood trickling from his nose, saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m totally fine.” His face was pale under the tan, the skin under his eyes looked worn. He still had those dark eyelashes, but that grin Jim had seen on the Mass Ave bridge ten years ago—he hadn’t seen that in a long time. Not really, not the real grin.

“Tony. What else did you take,” Jim said. Usually Tony was totally (seemingly) functional on coke, although that was not a fact Jim was happy to know. Jim never told his family how much time he spent finding Tony in dingy places or giving him pills or taking pills away from him.

“Nothing, nothing else, I’m fine,” Tony said, scrambling to get up. Maybe he was just drunk, on top of the coke. Maybe he’d been trying to sober up.

“Just tell me the fucking truth, Tony,” Jim said.

Tony looked like shit, and Jim was ashamed. That was what it was. Not another soul on the planet knew they were soulmates (Jim knew so because if Tony had blurted it out, it would have been on the front pages in the morning), but this was Jim’s soulmate all the same. It wasn’t the coke, even if Tony thought that later; the coke and the Scotch and whatever else had been going on for years. No, the worst thing was that Tony had never before fallen apart in the face of his responsibilities. Young as he had been, he’d always shown up in his suit, ready to dazzle the Board or Oprah or whoever it was. It had always been a private pleasure for Jim to see how much Tony was capable of.

Tony was babbling again; Jim shrugged it off just like all the nonsense Tony poured into his life, baubles he didn’t want and gadgets he didn’t ask for and facts he wished he didn’t know. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being your mother,” he said, the truest thing he’d ever said to Tony. He saw Tony’s face change.

*

By the turn of the millennium, Tony had learned to wear his addictions and misbehaviors well, stylish and expensive as his sunglasses. At the same time, by virtue of being one of the few people on this earth who could make Tony Stark do anything he didn’t want to do and, on the reverse, put up with Tony Stark’s constant barrage of bullshit, Jim had been made the Stark Industries Air Force liaison.

He was a major in the U.S. Air Force, a fact that his mom told everyone she met. It meant that Tony Stark had now become part of his career as well as part of his heart.

It didn’t mean Tony Stark was his life. Jim had made a name for himself on his own merits. He made decisions, and they were good ones; he got to watch younger pilots grow. He had a place in the world that fit him. Day-to-day,  he barely thought about Tony at all; the times were long gone when Tony had to hear from him every few hours. Now he might get a text (on his Starkphone, although it had been a Stark pager not so long ago) in the middle of the night or at three a.m. about some movie or informercial Tony seemed to be watching.

They’d grown up again into new selves, Jim thought. 

And sometimes he had to talk about Tony’s creations to some board of generals, but that wasn’t hard. He knew every aircraft and every missile inside and out, because he’d seen them as Tony worked and swore and sweated over them.

So December 1999 arrived, both dreaded and anticipated, and took Jim and some other armed forces tech experts to a tech conference in Geneva. It was essentially a coincidence that Tony happened to be at the same conference, but it was hard to ignore Tony Stark’s very best and most glamorous displays of showmanship before such an appreciative audience.

Tony had this habit now of spreading his arms out in a kind of “it’s me!” gesture, combined with that signature wide, shit-eating grin. Jim wondered when it had happened, when Tony had started wearing sunglasses all the time and making peace signs in every single photo and talking like that. He’d always talked in a kind of rushed way in which his thoughts tumbled out, shoving each other for space. Now, though, every word was a soundbite, and you could _hear_ the _italics_.

Tony seemed to be everywhere. “Y2K is _nothing_ , if you don’t _suck_ ,” Tony was saying loudly over his catered lunch on the last day of the conference, the 31st. Even though Tony's table was several feet behind Jim, and a very lovely and competent Air Force captain at Jim’s table was saying something about Afghanistan, Jim could hear Tony’s voice as clear as it always was. Maybe it was a soulmate thing.

Jim angled his chair to put Tony directly at his back; the conversation at his table seemed to have turned to Chechnya, and he’d lost the thread. “Kinda loud in here,” he said to the lovely captain, who was looking into her drink.

She shot a glance over his shoulder and said, “Yeah, someone’s nailed the ‘big stick’ side, but he's still working on the other part.”

That one genuinely earned a laugh. “As long as he keeps making us the big sticks," Jim said. "You ever flown the S-89?”

“Love it,” she said, taking a sip from her glass. “Thanks for getting us that one, Major.”

Just then, Tony stood up, started banging on his wine glass with his knife, and began a rambling but vaguely charismatic little speech that culminated in a toast to nothing in particular.

“Well, to slipping the surly bonds of earth,” Jim said wryly, raising his glass.

“And touching the face of God,” the captain finished, tapping her glass to his.

The hours ticked down.

At midnight they watched the fireworks from the captain’s hotel room, standing by the window and thoughtlessly robed in her sheets, so that they were twined together. Her words were written down her spine; when she noticed Jim looking at them, she said, “I’ve met him. He’s an asshole.”

She hadn’t asked about Jim’s own words over his heart, but he said, “And even when they’re the worst asshole in the world, you still love them, don’t you?" 

The fireworks turned the glass of the window pink and neon red and orange and gold. “Can’t help it,” she said. “Sometimes you even like them.” And he thought she knew then. She was the first person he’d ever told, even indirectly.

He tightened his arm around her waist. In response, she drew closer to him. She was his height or even a little taller, so she couldn’t really rest her head on his shoulder, but she leaned into him a little.

“A new millennium,” the captain said.

The next morning, they ordered room service breakfast to eat in bed and made a bet about who’d make it to major and lieutenant colonel, respectively, first.

*

Jim returned from a special emergency leave in late 2004 to find Pepper and Tony having a shouting match in the basement of the Malibu house. Amid the increasing number of little robots lurching around the floor and scattered metal debris, Tony was hunched over a work surface, surrounded by half-empty glasses filled with food-like sludge. Facing him, Pepper was an oasis in sharp heels and a designer skirt suit, gripping a sheaf of paper in her hand and holding the other hand to her head. The place smelled confined, like it needed airing and wasn’t entirely clean. And, like always, some kind of screamo metal was blasting through the garage, although it wasn’t from a boombox any more.

They both turned as soon as Tony’s new house monitor thing, JARVIS, announced Jim’s arrival.

“Oh, thank God,” Pepper said. “Rhodey, are you okay?”

At the same time, Tony sat up and said, “Rhodey. Where the hell were you? I _needed_ you.” He looked ten years older. Still wearing that goatee he loved, but worn and old.

Jim ignored Tony. “I’m all right. Thanks, Pepper.”

“And Carol?” Pepper asked, more tentatively.

“She’s gonna be all right.” Jim couldn’t hide his relief; Pepper gave him a little smile to see it.

 “Wait, who the fuck is Carol?” Tony demanded. He’d knocked over one of his glasses of sludge, but didn’t seem to notice.

Pepper turned on him. “What is _wrong_ with you,” she said, gripping the papers even tighter, like she was about to hit him with them. “What is _wrong_ with you, Tony, he is your best friend, practically your—God, never mind.” She threw up her hands.

“C'mon,” Tony said in offended tones. If Rhodey didn’t know him so well, he wouldn’t have been able to tell how soused Tony was. “Quit holding out on me.”

Jim looked at Tony and said evenly: “There was a project. Highly classified. Carol got sick, they weren’t sure what was going on. I got leave; she got better. You have a blueprint due in three days and I need it, Tony. You need to fulfill this contract.”

“No, let’s talk about this asshole Taggert they sent me while you were off on _vacation_ —“

Jim walked out.

Tony sent Jim’s sister a Lamborghini three days later.

Pepper sent Carol a gift basket with a Celtics blanket and her favorite cannoli and peach tarts in a chilled container.

 The thing that only Pepper understood was that Tony only had the power to hurt if you cared about him. 

*

Jim woke up from a concussion in Afghanistan in 2008. Half-conscious and slurring his words, he said, “Where’s Tony?”

The silence from the person at his bedside was an answer in itself. Jim struggled to sit up before the man pushed him back down and said with a broad Texas twang, “Sir, you’re concussed. You need to stay still.”

“Is he dead?” Jim thought he really might be sick. He tried to turn onto his side.

“We don’t know, sir.”

“Gimme my phone,” Jim said, and kept saying it until someone gave him the cell phone. It was still a StarkPhone, still given to him by Tony. It got reception everywhere and could call anyone. He used it to call Pepper.

“Hold on a second—“ her voice said faintly on the line. Then, louder, she said: “Rhodey? What happened? I got a call from the base but they wouldn’t really say anything, they said something happened to Tony.”

“Yeah.” Jim’s mouth was dry. “They took Tony, Pepper. He wouldn’t let me go in the Humvee with him.” That part seemed important. Tony hadn't let Rhodey ride with him. He was in a fit of pique because Rhodey wouldn’t drink with him (even though somehow Tony got his way anyway and got them drinking _and_ had those damn stripper flight attendants out again). So Tony hadn’t let Rhodey ride with him. “I would’ve . . .”

“Oh my god.”  There was a long silence, maybe muffled sound. “I have to call Obie. Oh my god. Are you okay?”

“Think I have a concussion,” Jim said. Then someone took the phone away and said, “Who gave him this?”

Days and weeks and phone conversations and press releases happened. A lot of the phone calls were with Obadiah, who seemed determined to keep Stark Industries running the same as it always had been. That should have felt like a good thing.

“I don’t know what to do with the house,” Pepper told Jim one night.

Jim would have known if Tony died. Right? Tony was his soulmate. He would have felt it. He would know.

“We’re gonna find him, Pepper,” Jim said, pacing outside in the dust, looking at the faded mountains on the horizon. “I know him. He’s the most stubborn, vicious, creative asshole on the planet, and he’s not gonna go down this way. We’re gonna find him." 

No intelligence showed up. It was like Tony had vanished off the face of the earth, but that wasn't Tony's style. Jim  _knew_ him. But the brass didn't; Jim had to use every ounce of charisma and sway he had to convince his commanding officers to give him a few more months. Wasn’t Tony Stark an invaluable asset to the defense of the USA? Wasn’t it a PR disaster to lose him to a terrorist group?

He took flights over the desert daily, not even knowing what he was looking for, and then he saw explosions and fingers of fire reaching into the clouds and knew: that was what he was looking for. That was Tony. Of course it was Tony—he never appeared without making a dramatic entrance. He loved fire.

And it was Tony. Tony alone in the desert, sunburned and dirty and injured and stubbly—and _sober_ —and grinning like he might cry and pressing his face into Jim’s shoulder like he hadn’t done in so many years. “Next time you ride with me, okay?” Jim said. He couldn’t help keeping his arm around Tony’s shoulders. Jim was worn out to his bones, but Tony was alive.

Tony didn’t really stop holding onto Jim even in the helicopter on the ride to the base, even while Tony grabbed and swallowed someone’s Gatorade like it was life itself, even when Tony turned so that his mouth was by Jim’s ear and whispered, “I need you to help me keep a secret. Nobody else, Rhodey. Please.”

“I got you,” Jim said, vague for the sake of everyone else who would hear. That day, he would have said yes to anything Tony asked. He knew there was something Tony was hiding; he was holding his shirt in front of his heart. But on Tony’s bare bicep, the words were still dark and stark and clear: _Hey, don’t fall over_. He'd been saying that to Tony all his life. 

“Pepper said you and Carol got engaged,” Tony said with a sudden, reasonless urgency. Banged-up as he was, his eyes were bright. “Right?”

“Yeah, Tony," Jim said gently. The news was months old by now; Tony looked proud to have remembered.

“Cool,” Tony said. He gave Jim a tired smile. “Good work, Funshine Bear.” He closed his eyes, still leaning on Jim. For once he made only a few complaints, for show, while the medic examined his wrist.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked this! I don't mean to demonize Tony in this story at all, but canonically he sometimes behaves kind of terribly, particularly to the people who care for him, and I wanted to acknowledge that directly. By Iron Man, Rhodey is so used to and disappointed in Tony's inconsiderateness when he's three hours late for the flight, but clearly still loves him, so I wanted to see how Rhodey got to that point.
> 
> Rhodey calls himself Jim because, well, Rhodey is Tony's nickname for him, not necessarily what his family or his other friends call him. There's a tension between the parts of Rhodey's life that Tony is woven into and the parts that Tony's kept separate from, and Rhodey's name is part of that.
> 
> I paired Carol with Rhodey because Carol and Rhodey were paired in the comics and they totally make sense because they're both Air Force/pilots. I really like it : )
> 
> I went with the idea that soulmate marks don't fade upon death, if you were wondering. I personally prefer the idea that the soulmate remains the same, whether or not the person is alive.
> 
> References: Carol refers to Teddy Roosevelt's "Speak softly and carry a big stick" aphorism. Rhodey replies with lines from the famous poem "High Flight." "Life is a Highway" was indeed a chart-topping song in 1992, but it fits Tony well, doesn't it? Tony might be making reference with "buttercup" to the song "Build me up, Buttercup." Obviously, Tony calls Rhodey by two different Care Bear names. "Jim dear" is the name of the husband in "The Lady and the Tramp." I've always thought that the dark eyelashes do give RDJ a silent-movie look (because they wore heavy eyeliner) but coincidentally RDJ was obviously famous for playing Charlie Chaplin as well. Hilariously, I think Tony actually does call Rhodey "platypus" in Iron Man 1 . . . and obviously it is canonical that MCU Tony and Rhodey met at MIT.
> 
> Please comment if you liked this! That's a big incentive for me to write more. I have a lot of people who regularly bookmark but don't comment . . . if you like enough to bookmark, write me a few words telling me what you thought!
> 
> Follow me at fmowrites.tumblr.com for snippets of writing, meta (mostly Marvel), Marvel stuff in general, and so on!


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